


Ill Humor

by Flutiebear



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 08:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3321143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett and Anders and a couple of beers. It sounds like a bad punchline, but at whose expense?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ill Humor

"Denerim? I hardly knew him," Garrett finishes, teeth flashing like a card sharp's. Aveline groans into her beer. Carver rolls his eyes and gets up to order another drink. Even Varric makes a sour face.

Anders, however, can't help but laugh. Or, rather, he makes some kind of weird, barking noise, the result of a throat too long unaccustomed to frivolity; the sound carries over the din of the Hanged Man's taproom. Varric and Aveline exchange a concerned glance. But Garrett doesn't seem to mind the racket. No, he looks downright _proud_ of himself.

"Maker, Hawke, that joke is terrible, _"_ Anders says, sipping from the flagon before him in an attempt to soothe his scratchy throat. "Though I suppose we should have expected as much from you."

Garrett sniffs as haughtily as an Orlesian courtesan. "You're just jealous that I got to tell it first."

" _Nobody_ should bother telling that joke first." Anders's fingers dance around the mug handle. Laughter has made him weary – or, perhaps, made him realize how weary he already was. "You should send it back to the dusty dwarven thaig from whence it came."

"Ooh, _whence."_ Garrett leans closer. "I like it when you talk fancy."

Anders smirks. "Aren't you easy to impress."

Aveline's eyebrows disappear into her hairband, but mercifully, she stays silent. Varric, however, isn't so kind. "You know Hawke. He's an overgrown puppy," he says with a wicked gleam in his eye, "desperate for approval."

"Then perhaps he ought to tell better jokes," Anders replies.

Garrett has the audacity to appear offended by the remark. It makes him look terribly young and handsome. "The boys dockside think I'm funny enough."

"There's your first problem," says Aveline.

"What?" Garrett's head bounces back and forth between Anders and Aveline. "Why?"

Hiding a fond smile, Varric shrugs. "Harbormasters aren't known for their evolved sense of humor. They think barnacles are hilarious."

"You're lucky Isabela isn't around to hear you say that," says Carver, returning to the table.

Varric shrugs again. "She'd agree with me. Where is she anyway?"

"She dragged Merrill off hat-shopping," he says, adding as an afterthought, "And Fenris too."

Garrett stands up, and all heads turn toward him. Flourishing his finger in the air, he jabs the table and almost misses. Anders snickers.

"I think all of you are unfairly prejudiced against the dock workers of this fine city. They're a dignified people with a long and storied history who have much to teach us." Garrett is obviously drunk.

"Just so long as their bad jokes are _all_ you've picked up," Anders replies. Varric titters into his beer. .

"Is that… jealousy I detect?" Garrett smiles widely, that cracked-tooth grin that looks like he stole it from one of those ragdolls they're always finding. "Are you jealous, healer?"

"I'm just looking out for your nethers," says Anders.

"You can look out for my nethers any time you _fancy,_ " Garrett shoots back.

"Oh, just hump his leg and be done with it," mutters Carver, retreating back to the bar. Shaking their heads, Varric and Aveline follow. Anders can't tell whether he's grateful or not.

Garrett gawps like a fish after his brother. "Sorry," he mutters to Anders.

Anders shrugs. He can't muster a lick of embarrassment. On the contrary, all this flirting makes him feel lighter, younger – almost like himself again.

It's not subtle, whatever this _thing_ is between him and Garrett. It crackles, sings, screams the life back into Anders's weary bones. Perhaps if they just indulged themselves already – just once – it might be better for them both. No, for Kirkwall. Sex would bleed this obsession from Anders's flesh like an ill humor, leaving his mind all the more capable of focusing on the cause. _His_ cause. The only reason he's here.

Yes. That.

At the same time, however, Anders finds himself reluctant to give it a try. Not that he wouldn't enjoy it, and very much so. But this attraction—this distraction—it's the first he's felt anything like it in a very long time, if ever. And much to his dismay – or is it Justice's? – he finds that he wants to hoard that sensation, to curl around it like a dragon protecting its treasures. The last thing he wants to do is sacrifice it just for an evening's passion. Beggars can't afford to throw away jewels.

Anders likes Garrett too much to sleep with him. Talk about bad jokes.

Garrett clears his throat suddenly, and that's when Anders realizes he'd been staring.

"So. Um." Garrett flops gracelessly into his chair. "Yeah."

"What, all your flirt dried up now that everyone's left?" Anders laughs. "I'm beginning to think you don't like me at all. You only like putting on a show for the others."

"I like you," Garrett says with surprising forcefulness. "I like you a lot."

"I like you too." The admission floods Anders with warmth, down to his toes. "Even if your jokes are terrible."

"I know better ones," he says, hopeful.

"Don't tell them to me. Please." Anders grins. "Don't you dare."


End file.
